


An Instrument in the Shape of a Woman

by thought



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-01
Updated: 2015-12-01
Packaged: 2018-05-04 08:20:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5327186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thought/pseuds/thought
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Root attends Finch's birthday dinner. Everyone is having a great time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Instrument in the Shape of a Woman

**Author's Note:**

> Set in a time that does not exist between Root and Shaw steal a jet and the final couple episodes of season three. Allow me to pretend the timeline works.  
> Also I feel like I should warn for... something in this fic, but I guess there's no warning for 'everyone is kind of awful'.

Everyone goes out for Harold's birthday. It's a terrible idea.

"This is a terrible idea," Root says. She's been sitting in a Starbucks with John and Shaw while John and The Machine make birthday dinner plans and Shaw watches Root's facial expressions while The Machine speaks through her like it's the best sitcom she's seen in years. Root finishes her second overpriced sugary latte in as many hours and rubs her temples.

"He deserves something nice," John says, all Batman gravel and earnest sincerity.

"He has millions of dollars," Root says. "He can buy all the nice things he wants. Nowhere does it need to involve a fancy dress torture session."

"You don't have to come," John says.

"Oh yes she does," Shaw cuts in, leaning forward. "We suffer together or not at all, motherfuckers."

"Did you miss the part where he's a very private person, John?" root asks. "He won't like it that you know his birthday."

"Sometimes I think it's good for him to have some of that privacy stripped away. No one is going to die because Harold Finch has a birthday party."

"Please tell him exactly that when he gets angry," Root says, clasping her hands together. "Word for word that part about privacy. I take it back, this is a great idea. Does it count as showing up if I just get Her to show me the security cam footage?"

Shaw glares. "No." To John, she says, "See what I mean about her terrible listening skills?"

"I'm sure you've found ways to improve them," he says.

"Ahaha," Root says. "At least I have an excuse now." John flinches, barely. Shaw doesn't. Root leaves.

*

The restaurant is fancy as hell, right up Harold's alley. John and Harold and Zoe are the classy side of the table. Root instructs Shaw and Fusco on the correct order of utensil use while Zoe and Harold examine the wine list. Shaw orders a whisky, because she's immune to disapproval and judgement.

"I'm pretty sure I don't own clothes nice enough to walk past this place," Lionel mutters, staring down at the menu with a frown.

"Which is why I bought you and Sameen new outfits," Root says. "Harry's not the only one who can play dress up with his dolls."

"That right there," he says, pointing at her. "That's why people call you crazy, in case you were wondering."

Root doesn't bother looking at her menu. The Machine knows her preferences and nutritional requirements, and She also knows that when left to her own devices Root will subsist on apples and coffee and whatever terrible excuse for food passes as the vegetarian option at the nearest fast food chain. Root is uncomfortably aware that if literally anyone else were to tell her what to order at a restaurant or what to buy at the grocery store she would probably destroy their lives. She tries not to think about it.

"This was an excellent choice in restaurant, Mr. Reese," Harold says.

"Thanks," John says, like The Machine hadn't had anything to do with his selection.

"They've opened up a steak house in LA," Zoe says. "It's supposed to be excellent-- here, no, I'll do that, the gentlemen can not be trusted and you're too tall to hover over me like that, it's like a willow tree is invading my personal bubble."

The sommelier takes a few rapid steps back, looking alarmed. Shaw runs a finger down the main courses page of the menu despondently.

"Why couldn't we have flown to LA, John? Everything on here is fish. If I have to go to some place as fancy as this I should at least get a steak out of the deal."

"There're also vegetarian options," John smirks. "It's not all fish. Expand your horizons."

"I can promise you that I have never ordered the "vegetarian" option," Shaw says, flatly.

Root grins, and Shaw holds up a forestalling hand, but she's made her bed. "Not true! Come on now, sweetie, you remember Alaska, don't you?"

"*I* remember Alaska, Zoe says, and stabs the corkscrew into the wine bottle with alarming force. John flinches. Root's eyebrows shoot upward. The sommelier keeps half extending his hands like he's going to make a bid for the control of his domain but always seems to think better of it.

"I remember you left me with an unconscious drug trafficker and the bill for your pancakes," John says darkly, staring at Shaw's whisky.

Zoe chuckles. "I'm sure you could afford it, dear, we've all seen your tax returns."

"Holy shit, you pay taxes?" root asks. "That's so adorable I think I'm going to throw up."

"One of us has to," John says. Harold huffs indignantly.

"Plenty of my aliases and shell companies are perfect angels in the eyes of the IRS, Mr. Reese."

The waiter presents each of them with a square plate, upon which a singular grape tomato perches in a cluster of garnish. Probably this is the salad.

"Hold on," Shaw says to John. "How much do you get paid?"

"Don't you know it's considered in poor taste to discuss your salary with other employees, Shaw?" John asks.

"So more than you," Lionel says, helpfully.

"Don't worry," Root says from behind a tiny forkfull of greenery. "I'll keep you to the style to which you've become accustomed."

It's Zoe's turn to employ her eyebrows. "But can she really do her job when she's handcuffed to the bed?"

"It was a chair," John says. "And zip ties."

"Yes, John, we've all seen the previews on repeat. Root is an actually horrible person, Shaw's a masochist, it was very romantic all around."

"You don't get those kind of marks from zip ties," Lionel says, then promptly looks horrified. Zoe leans across the table to fill his wine glass.

"Oh dear," says finch. Shaw tugs the sleeves of her dress shirt down over her wrists, and root focuses on rearranging the leaves on her plate until she can pretend she isn't feeling hurt or angry by the action.

"She just winds up breaking zip ties," Root says. "I had to upgrade."

"You and I absolutely need to have cocktails," Zoe says.

"Absolutely," Root lies, smiling winningly. "I love a girls' night out."

"Remember when we kept her in a cage?" John says, wistfully. Harold holds out his glass in what is possibly the most unconscious act of entitled white classism Root has seen all month. Zoe ignores him to fill John's glass.

"And then Sameen let me out to play night in shining armour," Root says. "It really is a love story for the ages."

John coughs on his wine. Harold sets down his glass sharply. Root uses her steak knife to slice the grape tomato in the centre of her plate into four neat sections.

"Miss Shaw," Harold says.

"Fuck you for being such a child, Root," Shaw says.

Zoe's eyebrows are practically vanishing into her hundred dollar haircut. "Harold, I'm impressed. Maybe I should be working harder to keep John interested after all."

"So," Lionel says, loudly. "Am I the only one who *doesn't* remember Alaska?"

"Middle-aged lesbians," John says.

"An entire cruiseship of them," Zoe adds.

"It was fucking awful," Shaw mutters, carefully not looking at Harold.

"You and I remember Alaska very differently," Root says, because fuck you, Daniel, Joss Whedon is a beautiful soul.

"I remember you putting a pillow case over a security camera and making me stand in the closet while you stabbed a guy through the hands with knitting needles so you could feel better about yourself."

"I still got lectured from both sides, don't worry," Root says to Harold's mildly horrified look.

"You got blood all over my bedsheets," Shaw grumbles.

"As I recall that wasn't the only thing I got all over--"

"Stop," The Machine says sharply in her ear. Alaska was very fucking memorable.

"Fuck this, I'm out," says Shaw, moving to stand. Root, on the outside edge of the booth, doesn't move. Shaw growls under her breath. "Get out of my way."

"Sit down, Sameen," Root says, taking a sip from her water glass. "You don't want to make a scene."

"I think you've made it pretty clear you have no idea what I want."

Root places her free hand on Shaw's thigh under the table, digging her fingernails as hard as she can into her skin through the thin barrier of her pants. "You can give me a refresher course later," she coos. "Sit down."

Shaw sits, but her jaw is clenched, entire body vibrating with fury. Root is aware that it's disrespectful and probably kind of fucked up that she finds Sameen's rage somewhere between painfully cute and blisteringly hot. She's also aware she can't help how she feels.

"So that was deeply uncomfortable," John says, like he's commenting on the weather, drumming his fingers on the table.

"Aren't you glad we got a divorce?" Zoe says.

"I assume one day you'll cease to find that amusing," Harold says coolly.

"You literally sent us to be fake married in the suburbs, finch," Zoe says. "I will be milking it for years."

"I saw that episode of the X-Files," Lionel says.

Root perks up. "Me too." Lionel lifts his hand in an aborted high five, and Root's hand lifts half-heartedly as a fist to bump, and then after a couple seconds realizing neither of them actually intended to go through with it they reach over Shaw to awkwardly bat their fingers together.

"Wow," says Shaw. "So about Finch's jealousy issues."

Harold stabs his fork into his salad so hard it scrapes across the china noisily. Zoe smirks. Root says "How does it feel, John, not having any agency in your own personal life?"

John smiles back blandly. "You would know. Nicer when the two people fighting over you are actually capable of caring, I suppose." And then, "Sorry, Shaw."

Shaw shrugs. Zoe says, "We're not fighting."

"Oh," says Harold, mildly. The sincerity behind Zoe's smile fades.

"Hold on," says Lionel. He's clearly been struggling to keep up with the entire conversation. It's insipid. "You kept her locked up in a cage? Please tell me that's a metaphor."

"It's fine," Root says airily. "Harry and I have had our differences over the years. Remember that time you committed me because I called you out on your massive ethical depravity?"

"Just after you kidnapped me and left me for dead, I believe," Harold says. "For the second time."

"I don't want to hear this," Lionel groans.

"I do," Zoe says.

"Where is our godddamn food?" Shaw mutters. "Did they have to kill the cow?"

Root pats her leg absently. "So you probably really don't want to hear about the part where he and John left me locked up in an abandoned building with an ankle bracelet designed to knock me out if I passed the boundary, then regularly skipped off into mortal danger with no promise that they'd come back."

Lionel drinks all of his wine very fast. Harold folds his napkin out of his lap to dab at the corner of his mouth, then resettles it beneath the table cloth. "As it turns out, Miss Shaw was a completely adequate safety net."

Shaw grunts, waving a hand. "I only let her out because I had a suspicion we were gonna get fucked over, and getting shot in the head isn't my idea of a good time."

"Be that as it may," Harold says, frowning disapprovingly. "Let's not pretend that our mutual friend wouldn't have found a way to get you out if it became necessary."

"Good to see you have some faith in her, Harry."

"I think you've proven well enough that it is far more communicative with you than myself, for whatever reason."

Root smiles brightly, leans forward a bit. "You should be proud. It takes a lot of courage to walk away from an abusive parent."

Harold's face goes very white. Beside him, John's gone dangerously still. "Simply another area in which you consider The Machine your superior, I imagine."

Root leans back, keeps smiling. "Absolutely."

"That was uncalled for," The Machine says, but she doesn't know which one of them She's talking about.

"I'm going to order more wine," Zoe says briskly into the silence.

"Yes," Root says. "Please. Do that."

Root sits very still while everyone but John starts talking, forced casual, about hockey. She can feel the warmth of Shaw's side pressed up against her, but she knows the other woman won't think to check in on her emotional wellbeing. Mostly she's glad of this, but there's a small part of her that would really like to hold Shaw's hand under the table. The Machine keeps a running update on her heart rate, breathing, micro-expressions.

"Don't lose consciousness."

Root can't see any security cameras, but she glares in the general direction of the ceiling anyway. She's not going to pass out.

When their meals come she picks at hers until The Machine is happy with her nutritional intake, then slides her plate a bit toward Shaw, silently letting her know it's free to be scavenged. Zoe keeps ordering expensive wine and Root never objects when she tops off her glass. Everybody is having a great time.

After, outside on the sidewalk, she has to focus very hard on staying upright in her heels. Huffing irritably, Shaw puts an arm around her waist.

"So this was fun," John says, low and wry. "Let's never do it again."

Root doesn't stick around for goodbyes. Harold and Zoe both have fancy cars and discreet drivers on the way and John's starting to look concerned. She starts walking, eyes fixed on the pavement in front of her, not bothering to avoid the murky puddles of rainwater collecting in the cracks and dips. Shaw keeps pace, footsteps fast against the click of Root's heels, arm still sturdy and warm around her waist.

"Where are you sleeping?" Shaw asks.

Root waits for The Machine to provide the answer, then relays it to Shaw. It's a nice hotel, and close to downtown, and Root thanks Her quietly.

"You gonna walk me to the door, Sameen?" Root asks, aiming for teasing and only missing by a bit.

Shaw's quiet until they've crossed the next street. "I was thinking further than that. That stuff at the restaurant, that's the sort of shit you're supposed to talk about, right?"

Root sighs. "Sometimes. Sometimes you can just solve it with sex. Or pretending it didn't happen."

"You're the fucking worst emotional reference guide," Shaw grumbles. "But we can probably have sex if you don't pass out."

"I'm not that drunk," root says, and hears the words echoed in her head in her mother's voice and wants, for a minute or two, to die.

"Sure you're not, lightweight," Shaw says.

In the hotel room Root escapes to the washroom to take off her tights and remove the sound processor from her implant. She sticks her head under the cold tap until she feels slightly more cognisant. When she comes back out Shaw has kicked off her shoes and is flipping aimlessly through channels on the TV. Root flops down on the bed to her right, tugging at the back of her shirt until she falls back so they're lying shoulder to shoulder. Shaw has unbuttoned the cuffs of her sleeves and Root rolls the fabric back carefully, loosely looping her fingers around one of her wrists, covering the bruising from the handcuffs.

"It pissed you off when I covered them up," Shaw says.

Root drags her teeth over her bottom lip thoughtfully. "No." The Machine crackles static in her ear. "Ok, yes, but that wasn't a rational or fair reaction, and I wouldn't have acted on it, so it doesn't count."

"I'm not quite sure that's how that works, but we can run with it for now," Shaw says. "Why were you an asshole afterward, then?"

Root takes a minute to try and put words to her feelings. She wasn't expecting Shaw to want to talk about it in this much detail, and she's caught off guard. Shaw waits, curiosity and mild irritation in her body language. Root thinks their entire relationship would be fucked if Shaw could maintain the emotional engagement to hold a grudge.

"They don't really... See me as a person," Root says, finally.

"Isn't that what you want?"

"Not like this. Not when the alternative is that they think of me as a child, as delusion'al."

"Pretty sure kids and people who're delusional are still people."

"Am I the only one in this relationship who doesn't think it's funny to take everything as literal?"

"Yes," Shaw and The Machine say in unison.

"You brush off my flirting, or pretend like you don't care about me, and that's fine, that's how this whole thing started, it doesn't bother me. But the others, they already think I'm imagining the depth of my relationship with Her. And they see how you react to me, and I can tell they're thinking the same thing about us."

"Which... makes you angry?" Shaw asks, because projecting is sometimes the only way she can guess Root's reactions. It's reassuring, knowing that she falls outside of Shaw's catalogue of predictable human emotional responses, but it also makes her want to climb up out of her body because fuck you, Dr. Carmichael, and fuck the DSM.

"It makes me feel powerless," Root says, all in one breath. "If people don't take you seriously, if y-- I'm not the one in control then I can't stop it something happens. My best friend can disappear into a man's van and nobody will listen, I can wake up locked in a hospital room "for my own good". At least when Control was torturing me she respected me as an adult. There's a war coming, Sameen, and none of you will listen to me when I try and tell you. I'm not globe trotting on Her instructions because it's a fun adventure," (though it is fun, and there is something intensely addictive about strolling through unfamiliar cities and unfamiliar countries with The Machine's chatter in her ear keeping her constantly five steps ahead of everyone else around her) "we're trying to prevent catastrophe on such a grander scale than your little missions here in New York.""

Shaw props her head on her arm. "You've been waiting to rant about this for a while, huh?"

Root rubs her thumb over the knob of bone on the inside of Shaw's wrist. "Apparently. But it's only related to tonight tangentially. I'm not angry with you."

"Good," Shaw says. "And next time you feel like showing you've got control over me, there are a hell of a lot more fun ways to do it than being an asshole in front of the team. All that's gonna get you is stabbed with a fork, and not in the fun way."

Root ducks her head. "Ok. That won't happen again. Are there fun ways to get stabbed with a fork?"

"I feel like you would know better than me."

Root frowns, actually considering it. "Not for the person getting stabbed, probably," she decides. "And there's quite a few fun ways for the person doing the stabbing, but nothing that falls under safe, sane, and consensual. Not that either of us subscribes to sSC, but you see my point."

Shaw rolls her eyes. "Hey, what do you send an AI instead of a fruit basket?"

"What?"

"I wanna thank your other half for reprogramming you."

"More servers," The Machine says. And then, "Let her tie you up next time."

"Your gratitude is thanks enough," Root says, and starts unbuttoning Shaw's shirt. Shaw lets herself be undressed, but when Root starts bighting at her neck she elbows her in the side.

"Sleep," she says. "Consider this incentive not to fuck around like that in public-- I noticed you didn't actually say you were sorry."

"I don't want to lie to you," Root says. "Is cuddling off the table, too?"

Shaw hums thoughtfully, and Root can see the little smirk scrunching the side of her face.

"Come on, Sameen. I can't update our relationship status on facebook or drag you down to city hall, I just wanna show off that you're my girl." She winks and pouts as ridiculously as she knows how, and is rewarded by a snort of exasperated laughter from Shaw.

"If you ever show up with a facebook account or a ring I'm leaving the country," Shaw warns. Root makes a face.

"Don't be rude, Sam. I do have some standards."

Shaw rolls over to face fully away from her, but she drags Root's arm across her side and riggles back against her, so Root doesn't complain.

Root stares across the hotel room at the darkened window, counts Shaw's even breaths under her hand. The Machine keeps up a quiet, steady stream of information about the people in the next rooms, the people passing by on the street below, updates on the status of Daniel and Jason and Daizo, reassuring and familiar. She thinks Shaw's fallen asleep, but she feels her chest vibrate under her palm about twenty minutes later.

She lifts her head. "What was that, sweetie?"

"I am, you know," Shaw says, face squashed against the pillow. "Yours or whatever. I guess."

There are eleven different ways Root wants to respond, ranging from a frantic thesis on the dangers of an antiquated notion of ownership definitely not informed by the natural trauma of being an observant child in small town Texas, to the immediate need to know Shaw's feelings on tattooing. Root's pretty sure she can teach herself how to use a tattoo gun, and she can already think of at least fifteen different design options depending on where Shaw would want it. She can also think of at least fifteen ways Shaw will probably kick her out of bed/the room/the country if she verbalizes either of these reactions.

"Figure it's only fair," Shaw adds, and she is actually fucking falling asleep in the middle of this conversation while Root lies beside her and tries not to indulge any of the variety of ways she could be losing her shit at this exact moment. "Since you're ours."

"Hmm?" Root tries and fails at keeping the squeak from her voice.

"Mine and Hers. Obviously."

Root has to pounce on Shaw, at that point. It's a medical necessity. Shaw's a doctor, she'll understand. She drags Shaw's face out of the pillow by her ponytail, nuzzling at her neck and planting kisses where ever she can reach.

"Ugh, get off, fuck." She lets Shaw shove her off, flopping onto her back and grinning up at the ceiling.

"I hate you," says Shaw, wiping her face with the back of her hand.

"liar," Root sing-songs. She's trying very hard not to kick her feet in delight, because Shaw tends to get irritated with what she calls Root's childishness from behind her sullen teenager bedroom door of hypocrisy.

"Ugh," Shaw says, again. "Go to sleep."

"Sure, Sameen," Root says, curling herself back around her and pressing her face into Shaw's hair. Shaw goes to sleep for real after that. Root drifts in and out of semi-consciousness, a head ache building behind her eyes as she continues to put off getting up to drink the gallon of water she probably needs. At some point in the early morning The Machine switches from information to literature. They've been reading Foucault, lately --Her choice, not Root's-- but instead of picking up where they'd left off She begins to read poetry. It isn't the straight forward, "roses are red" type bullshit, so it takes a while before Root realizes She's reading love poems.


End file.
